Sidesaddle Racers: On the road to Stampede!

On again, off again, I’ve ridden sidesaddle since the age of eight.

If I’m completely honest, there have been a lot of ‘off agains’. Once the novelty wore away – many moons ago – I just preferred riding astride. Yet for over four decades, much time and many dollars have been spent learning, riding, perfecting my position and effectiveness in the art of sidesaddle.  It has been a strange pursuit of excellence, as in my area, riding aside is not much taken seriously. There is no show circuit, there are precious few clinics or qualified teachers and until the age of the internet, good gear was hard to come by.

 

I would ride aside in open competition, begging to be allowed to show and ride with the regular folks. As though riding sidesaddle had given me some sort of leg up on the others, as though there was benefit to having both one’s legs on the same side. Still, when our family began offering weekend sidesaddle clinics every year, the attendance grew to almost thirty women and their horses… and they came to us from across the continent.

 

And so, I have puttered along, training most of my own horses and ponies to carry a sidesaddle, helping the odd lady with her position, fixing and restoring old saddles in my basement shop… for years. Then, in March of 2018, riding aside took over my life.

 

The invitation came in the form of a message.

Would I like to enter a series of flat races, sidesaddle, that would culminate in running, two nights, before the evening grandstand show at the Calgary Stampede? Without really thinking it through, I answered back. Sure, I said. Except that I didn’t have a horse… the safe one I had wasn’t fast and the fast ones I had weren’t safe! Not a problem, replied the sender. I pretty much forgot about it.

 

Next thing I knew, I was listed among a dozen other women to embark on a summer of sidesaddle racing. The goal was to build a core group of eight riders who would have the horse power and sheer chutzpah to compete at the Stampede in July.  So began a regime of saddling old Cody, now twenty-five, just to build myself up gradually… a task that if I’m honest, is becoming harder with each passing year. Starting with eight or ten minutes at a time, riding straight, riding correctly, my tummy aching and shaking in protest and my right leg turning jelly.

I gave up carbs… for the most part… I mean, what is life without Cheezees? I commenced doing crunches and sit ups on the dining room rug beside our bemused dog. I got myself to the point of being able to fasten the waistbands of two old corduroy split skirts. My ‘program’ would have to suffice.

 

By late April, I was meeting with the other women to ride.

In the end, five of the eight Stampede starters were my students. One of these was my own daughter. I began to feel an increasing shortness of breath, a relentless sort of pressure, whenever I’d allow myself to stop and think of their safety. These women had become my friends. I’d taught them and told them they were race-ready. I’d loaned saddles and bridles and added clothing into the mix. The responsibility, though unspoken, was there. Like Scarlett O’Hara, I coped by telling myself, “Fiddle-dee-dee, I’ll think about that, tomorrow.”

 

I met my new race horse. Ritz was a well-known rodeo pickup horse. He was long-haired and shaggy when I first saw him but three strides in, I knew that I’d only to siddown, hang on and shuddup. He knew his business, which was rodeo. I did not. We did our best to work around the Alberta spring weather and other commitments, fitting in as many rides as possible. It was a ‘pleased t’meet you; how can I get t’know you?’ approach. Through it all, the riders were bound to stay silent to all but close family, until the Stampede made an announcement to the press.

 

The day our group met at the press junket, in riding habits with four saddled horses… I began to see we were going to have to dig deep.

We were surrounded by television and radio reporters, whirring cameras, Stampede VIPs, requests for interviews and I, for one, was unprepared. Standing in that infield shadowed by the huge grandstand, our backs to the iconic red and white bucking chutes, explaining over and over just what it was we were doing, came as a great awakening. By nightfall, our faces and voices were on local and national radio and television… our social media news feeds were filled with our own faces and hesitant responses. We would soon learn to get much more at ease!

Perhaps the media attention was a good way to deflect some pressure from the riding? I found myself in the strange position of being the go-to gal for live interviews, many of which were held while I was in the saddle. One morning show host started with a question to my daughter, Cait, and I, “So what are you girls wearing right now?!” So yes, there were many fun moments and lots of laughter. There were also a few peevish questions as to why we wanted to “drag women back into centuries of darkness”. Rather than argue the point, I tried hard to remember our goal of honouring and remembering our grandmothers and all the strong women of the past.

 

Our first race was in High River, my home town, at the Guy Weadick Days Pro Rodeo.

We’d had five days of solid rain leading in. One thing that rodeo folks can teach the rest of us is this: no matter the wind or the weather, the show goes on. Knowing we’d end up wearing the track, we still saddled up with our treasured old gear and outfits and got ready to ride. Several of us were involved in the grand entry. It was a good chance to get our mounts used to hard-running horses, loud music and gunfire. Ritz and I were honoured to bear the Canadian flag, while a four-year-old boy sang our national anthem on his tiny pony. What a way to start!

Eleven women made their way to the muddy track. We had a few issues to sort out, things that couldn’t be foreseen until we’d actually tried them. The walking start was one and by the last day at the Stampede, six weeks later, we’d got our timing down to an art. Until this point, however, we’d never actually run our horses. We’d done some hand-gallop in practice and I’d let Ritz out a bit in the grand entry to unfurl the flag. I’d been warned that he had big wheels, so there was no excuse… but let me just say that I’m one of those who learns best by doing, rather than being told. Ritz was about to teach me a lesson.

 

The hat dropped, our horses took off and I was on a missile.

Rather than grab mane or a holy cow strap with both hands to stay forward at the start, I’d thought to rely on my right leg to keep me straight. Mistake. Video footage of our start shows Ritz’s fast, powerful leaps flattening my bent right leg flat out along his crest. We were well into the first turn before I’d talked myself into getting serious about staying on. Even then, the game horse hauled me along by the reins for the entire race. A valiant and mud-spattered stretch run against Ryan and her Paint horse, Elvis, had us finishing second.

It was an eye opener and rather than feel relief at having begun, I spent a long and sleepless night.

 

Two days later, I got word that Ritz had an abscess. It was bad, he was in medical care and would be unable to continue on with me. This meant that I had less than a week to find a new horse and get to know him. I make my living riding horses, so I shouldn’t have been overly concerned about riding an unknown animal. Should’ve, would’ve, could’ve… whatever. Worried, I was.

 

Sam, again, to my rescue. “You can ride Elvis. He won in High River!” she said. This was my first inkling as to the incredible generosity of these sidesaddle women. Young Ryan, his proven rider, would graciously take on a lesser-known horse. I felt awkward – nay, plumb bad about unhorsing her – and yet, she never once made me feel uncomfortable. As a group, we once again made ourselves ready to ride.

 

Millarville Race Meet is a Canada Day tradition in southern Alberta.

Race goers have been meeting on the banks of Three Point Creek for one hundred and thirteen years. The stands and infield are brimful with bet-makers, happy families and tailgate picnics. Tents and tables are set up close enough to the rail that one can almost touch them as one races past. The century-old race track is picturesque in its setting of rush-lined ponds and big cottonwoods… and the line up of cars waiting to enter snakes for miles out to the main highway.

 

The first actual Ladies Sidesaddle Race took place in 2005 at the Millarville Centennial Meet. Cait and I were among those women who took part that day. It was a fast, straight sprint and we were on familiar, well-loved horses. Our memories of that day are good ones. The race later went through some low spots when it was revamped into a ‘trot-only’ sidesaddle spectacle… laughable as fast trotting is hell, aside. Most horses don’t smooth out until the canter. Worse, by putting a limit on the riders, it denigrated our achievements as horsewomen.

In a show of disagreement, I boycotted these trotting races, so it had been thirteen years since I’d run at Millarville. In fact, the centennial race I’d ridden in was only two weeks before I had my stroke. I felt ready to make some sort of a personal comeback.

 

I had another reason for wanting to ride here…

The race, now called ‘The Winnifred Harvey Memorial Sidesaddle Race’ was in honour of my mentor. My first saddle was Winnie’s and I still treasure her library of sidesaddle books, hats, whips and habits. She was a Canadian sidesaddle icon and it meant so much for me to be there.

 

So far, my time with Elvis was limited to three rides, which included a day on the trails. We were getting acquainted as best we could but I still didn’t know how to run him. Getting dressed, I hoped my bright red boots would lend me a sense of bravado.

 

Again, eleven women went to the post. The old track is narrow and there was much jostling as, side by side, we lined up for the start. Elvis ran second to Erin on Moose, her black speedster… until just before the wire when we were passed by Ryan, riding like the wind. I was thrilled to earn the third place ribbon embossed with Mrs. Harvey’s name. It now holds place of honour, beside her old black and white picture, in my tack room. A comical moment was captured at the finish when my hat brim was blown back against my head… “¡Arriba, Arriba! ¡Ándale, Ándale!” it seemed to say.

More serious to me, was the fact that I was feeling over-horsed. Elvis had shone in Ryan’s hands, while I’d needed an expert outrider to get the big gelding stopped after our race. It was poor form to request a different horse when they were so kindly being loaned to me, but try another, I must.

 

When one is competing, whether it be running barrels or riding dressage, it is hard to admit when we need to pass on the big mover in the name of riding safe.

Harder yet, the safe horse for you mightn’t be the safe horse for me. Sam, bless her heart, listened and again came to my rescue. “You can ride Brooks,” she said, a hugely generous offer as the cream-coloured gelding had been her own ride in the first two starts.

Brooks and I had two rides to sort things out… the first of which was during a television interview in front of the camera. A lively but honest fellow, Brooks didn’t have the same sheer power of Ritz or Elvis and we immediately felt well-suited. We mightn’t run with the leaders but on this solid horse, I felt certain that we would finish!

 

I’m still humbled and amazed by the generosity of the Rempels, superstars among rodeo pickup men, for allowing me to ride him. Then, the open-ended kindness of another family, who shall remain anonymous, for so freely sharing their horses and support. I’d have been unable to take part in any of this without them.

 

The press got more intense.

One surreal morning had Cait and I heading into Calgary’s city centre, sleepy-eyed and lugging along a sidesaddle and folding stand. Neither of us with the faintest idea of where to park or how to pay for the privilege, we ended up racing on foot down rainy sidewalks, looking for the skyscraper that held Breakfast TV. On air with minutes to spare, we looked at one another, gulped big breaths and started our online banter. By George, we were getting the hang of it all.

 

 

Cait’s horse, Jack, had been living with us for a month. Cait and her husband, Lee Bascom, live on a one-hundred-section community pasture in southern Saskatchewan. She would drive back and forth three times before racing in Calgary, a round trip of ten hours each time. My job would be to keep old Jack in some sort of fitness for his race days, to spare him the stress of hauling. A wonderful, real, honest-to-goodness working ranch horse, Jack had been dreadfully sick only a month earlier, from a bacterial infection of the lungs. He needed to slowly rebuild his wind.

 

Jack and Cait would end up finishing stronger with each passing race, proving again that the most important part of any good horse is the size of his try. Rigged out in the c. 1885 S.C. Gallup sidesaddle, they genuinely represented all of us ordinary country folks.

Ryan Kennedy proved to be a force to be reckon’d with, no matter her steed. Tall and wiry, Ryan has the fierce heart of a conquistador. Nobody watching her would imagine that she was new to riding sidesaddle, as she handily won two races, while never finishing below third. Ryan was back on the Paint, Elvis, for Calgary and she made an elegant picture on her Victorian-era English sidesaddle, wearing a military jacket and cap.

Hailey Stewart was another of our relative newcomers. I will always be awed by her grit. Her first outing was at High River, where her breakaway stirrup came off in the first turn. Undaunted, she rode hard to finish fifth. Hailey skipped Millarville and headed straight to the Stampede, this time, dealing with a broken stirrup leather. This, kids, is why we learn to ride without! There’s a brilliant video making the rounds, of Hailey and her barrel horse, Tadpole, in a neck and neck run with Dr. Erin Thompson Shields on Moose. That’s just the kind of competitor Hailey is… and her quiet composure made her a solid part of our sidesaddle racers squad.

Erin, a practicing veterinarian, was key to the well-being of the horses. A chilly competitor, if you’re going to out-ride her, you’d better be prepared to ride hard for the win. Also a former Calgary Stampede Princess, Erin is as sticky as all-get-out. Her horse, a borrowed running-bred Quarter Horse called Moose, performs like a machine. He was first across the finish line to win the silver buckle at Millarville and in nose-to-nose stretch runs both nights at the Stampede. Erin is also part of our two mother and daughter duos that raced, which brings us to her mother, Anne.

Seventy-year-old Anne Thompson is larger than life. Nightly, “Grannie Annie” brought the cheering crowds of 45,000 to their feet. Admitting that her good health allows her to do these things she loves, Anne works very hard at her fitness by going to the gym three days a week. Her horse, George, is an off-track Thoroughbred who was rescued by the SPCA not once, but twice. George proved to us the power of forgiveness by being one of the grounding forces among the group.

 

Jesse Dupont is another of our young newcomers to riding aside. Starting just this spring, Jesse turned heads at the Stampede by taking part in the parade on her race horse… placing sixth in the huge Team Penning Championship with her mother… racing her home-bred and trained young horse, Jack… and making the hotly-contested Working Cowhorse Open Bridle finals during the closing days of Stampede. Jesse’s handy, she’s calm, humble and personable. Riding since before memory, Jesse trains horses and aspiring riders, all the while being undeniably versatile. I was proud to ride with this genuine gal.

Finally, rounding out our group, is Sam. Sam Mitchell enters a room and nothing else matters. If you’ve met her, you’ll know what I mean. This woman doesn’t know the meaning of the word ‘no’… or the phrase ‘it will be difficult’. She just gets it done. Sam was the living link between the huge Calgary Stampede organization and the sidesaddle racers. She hauled horses to press junkets and then, to the big show. She organized practice rides to accustom rural horses to the noises of Stampede.

 

Sam kept our minds in the middle and decorated the lounge area with lush hanging baskets and cow hide rugs. She kept champagne on ice. Through her, I have learned the meaning of good cheese and pate. In all seriousness, it is Sam who horsed me with safe, fast horses. I am so grateful to her for the opportunity to represent my sometimes-forgotten generation.

We arrived at the barns the night before Stampede parade.

To take part, one must be invited and most usually, mounted on provided contract horses. We took part in the parade on our own race horses, something of which I’m not sure many people grasp the significance. At one point in the downtown core, there we were among 750 horses, twelve marching bands and 350 floats, riding before 350,000 people… while going under a railroad overpass with a freight train thundering overhead!

 

Four hours later, we were a stiff and sorry-looking lot as we tried to straighten our right legs and jump to the ground. It was a round of Advil for us and then, their backs hosed down and sprayed with apple cider vinegar, a long soak in the Elbow River for the horses.

Nerves began to be felt. There was a documentary being filmed of our journey, with a film crew following us since our first meet in High River. In fact, I was wired for sound while running the first two races. At once point on Saturday, before our first race, we had four television crews in the barn with us. Entertainment Tonight was filming a clip with a demanding, young pop star while we made our race preparations. We were filmed grooming, dressing, saddling up and waiting.

 

There was no place to shed emotion, or withdraw, or act out. This may have been a good thing but I remember it as an added level of pressure. We could hear the crowd building over the sound of the midway and a record attendance was being announced. How would our horses react to the sound of more than forty thousand cheering voices? Time would tell.

 

Each afternoon of the three days, we were invited to join in the grand entry. This is a blazing spectacle that kicks off the afternoon rodeo with Stampede VIPs and honoured guests. Four of us were to flank these people as we raced into the infield… then stand like statues while speeches were made… and cannons were fired… all the while rockin’ AC/DC intros blared… and world-renowned cowboys zip-lined into the stadium… Canadian Air Force jets surprised us with a fly-by overhead. The crowning glory was the colossal thump-thump-thump of a Huey helicopter circling the stadium with our flag unfurled. These are hard things to train for but not one of our horses let us down.

 

That afternoon, Cait went quietly around to each of us, proffering a basket of small boxes tied with twine. These held beautifully engraved silver hearts, good luck mementoes she’d made for us to hang from our saddles. The Cattle Cait charms kept us safe and will become treasured souvenirs. It was with a strange sense of doom that we later learned of Erin’s silver heart falling to the track during the first race. Our superstitions proved empty, thank God! There’s a rightness in knowing that one of our sisters has buried her heart on Calgary’s infamous ‘half mile of hell’.

There would be no place for us to warm up on the grounds. The horses were to be fed and watered in their stalls and in between, hand walked ’round and ’round the barns. Every so often, we’d defy the posted signs and take them down the steep banks of the river to soak in the cold current. We planned to dress, then braid and saddle the horses before heading across the track with our carefully-chosen men as helpers. Here, we would wait in the infield while the chuckwagons raced through nine heats.

 

If you’ve never been track-side while chucks are racing, it’s hard to describe the sound of thirty-two pounding Thoroughbreds, twenty screaming men, sixteen sets of jingling harness and four rattling chuckwagons… times nine.

 

These races are historically a special feature of the Calgary rodeo. Competing for the right to run for $100,000 in the final race, competition is intense. The chucks are the reason, the main attraction, for the thousands of screaming fans. By sundown, around 9:30 at night, the last of them has run.

 

We knew beforehand that there was little we could do to train our horses to accept the noise and close-up intensity of these races. It was decided that our own safety would rely on staying off the horses until the last minute. It would rest with the men chosen to help handle the excited horses, then put us up, straighten our aprons and make sure that our girths and balance straps were tight. We needed cowboys who were used to pressured-up situations and who would stay calm and handy, with no show of nerves. Thanks to Lee Bascom, Dace Cochlan, Keith Stewart, Riley Harvey and my husband Mike, we were kept safe.

 

Both nights, twenty minutes to post time, two of us were to make our way to the announcer’s stage for a pre-race interview. We’d bail into a golf cart, speed headlong through the crowds, dismount and run through the under-track tunnel, to make our way ziggedy-zag to the grandstand stage. We took turns doing this because as you can imagine, it was the last thing we needed to calm our nerves. Then, of course, minutes later we’d be charging back again to take up our reins.

 

We found that the horses coped well with the insanity of the show while we stayed on foot. They seemed to know they could relax as long as we weren’t in the saddles. This was doable but it was hard to stand in a nervous group, watching the men each walk two horses, knowing that soon we’d be racing pellmell around the track without any riding in. The warm up was to consist of riding down the alley into the infield, then cantering and waving to the crowd as our names were announced on the way to the start.

 

By the fourth start, our horses knew darned well it was a horse race! It became a challenge keeping them to a canter with one hand, waving to the roaring crowd with the other. I was first out on the track each night, as I was riding Brooks. With his experience as a rodeo pickup horse, it seemed that he was the right one to lead the others into the spotlight. Brooks was brave and willing and loped straight in both nights.

I can’t speak for the others but I remember a strange disconnect at this point. It was almost as though I was watching myself ride from a distance. All the planning and training and sleepless nights ended here. I’d be aware of the amplified voice saying my name in that long-drawn-out bawl that marks the pro rodeo announcer but I was only dimly aware of the crowd. This seemed strange, as their cheering resembled the vibrating rumble of a passing train. It was an energy that one felt even more than one heard. Several times I felt myself swaying, dizzy almost to the point of passing out. “Oh, no you don’t!” I’d say to myself sternly and then I’d be fine.

The worst part, for me, was bringing my horse back to a slow canter, then a jog, moving down the track until the other seven had caught up to us. We were under strict orders from Stampede organizers to keep things moving, not to slow down the show. They wanted the race happening promptly, without any false starts.

 

Once our horses were abreast – and the first night, Brooks and I’d drawn the eighth, or outside, position – the starter would drop his white Stetson and the race was on. The grandstand could hear a horn, the chuckwagon claxon, but over the roar of the crowd and the horses running, we could not.

 

 

You can train your core strength and your equitation while your horse walks, trots and canters. You can develop your style to be at home on a galloping horse. What you can’t train for is the sheer power of racing Quarter Horses accelerating from a standing or walking start. The closest I can come to describing this is the feeling of take-off on a jet-liner.

 

There is no steering while they hit their stride, so the best thing to do is hang on to something in front of you so that you’ll stay clear of your horse’s mouth. Most horses will level out when they hit cruising speed… but at 3/8ths of a mile, our horses were pretty much accelerating throughout the entire race. If one got in trouble, a bit off balance, there was no way to fix it until one was pulling up at the end. Don’t ask me how I know this.

 

Shorter races come with their own set of problems.

While these races all had a corner before the stretch run, the horses tended to run in a closely knit pack. If up front, you’re aware of those feet thundering behind you and sometimes, your horse will falter when he hits the stretch and starts hearing the crowd. If you’re behind the leaders, the sand pelting your face comes as a very unpleasant surprise. There’s a reason they resurface rusty metal with sandblasting….

 

In North America, it is traditional to run our races on sand in a counter-clockwise direction. Folk lore says that the reason for this dates back to the Revolutionary War when America vetoed everything of English origin. Horse racing in a clockwise direction was one of them. That means that at two of the tracks, officials insisted that we ride counter-clockwise, running to the usual left.

 

There’s a huge pull, a torque that threatens to loosen you, while racing sidesaddle through left-hand turns. Strangely, I’d got myself accustomed to this, making allowances for it… and when the Stampede announced that for safety’s sake, we’d be riding right, I felt uncomfortable. Worse, I’d come to the realization that my conditioning had not been up to par. I was still overweight and my strength was ebbing. I was not riding my best.

 

The other girls rose to the occasion. Hailey and Erin were neck and neck in a duel to the wire on the first night, bringing the roaring crowd, as one, to their feet. Oh, the sheer power of it! The rest of us galloped across the finish line in a blur and for many of us, it was with a sense of relief. Three starts down and one to go.

I was facing another challenge.

By about five in the afternoon, my energy wanes and I get sick. This dates back some thirteen years to my stroke. I’ve not fought the tendency and since then, early bedtimes have become a part of my life.  In Calgary, as we weren’t racing until 9:30 at night, I’d promised myself that I would retreat to a quiet place each day for an afternoon nap. This would help me to cope.

 

Sunday afternoon, lying down in the still darkness of the dressing room, I was aware that someone from the outside hallway had slid closed the bolt that locked the door.  The barns were quiet as everyone had left to watch the rodeo. I picked up my phone to call for help but there was no service from inside the cinder block walls.

 

I ended up spending some four hours in that little room, frustrated, thirsty and surprisingly panicked… and I paid the price that night. Only by the grace of God, was I able to hang on from start to finish and not end up in the dirt. Photos of the finish show that my seat was no longer in the saddle but rather, beside it. I was literally running on an empty tank, so very glad that our adventure was done.

Up at the front of the pack – Brooks and I were to finish sixth both nights – Ryan had Elvis wound up and rode in for the win. Cait was thrilled that Jack, her seventeen-year-old ranch horse, ran better each race. Both nights, they’d finished fourth. All of us were happy to have made it home safely.

 

The very first thing we’d call out and ask one another as we were breezing to a stop, was this, “Everybody okay? Are we all here?” we’d shout over our shoulders into the wind.

 

Our horses would decelerate down into rough and loose loping – the most ungainly part of the ride – and then, we’d pull up on the far turn and go back for another pass in front of the stands. A final wave, then a dash through the infield and down the alley, where the fired-up horses would be snagged and stopped by one of our men. We would swing our right legs over and jump down to the ground. The horses, walking on ahead with loosened girths, immediately settled. By the time they’d made the quarter mile back to the barns and wash racks, many of them would be cooled out for the night.

I would walk slowly, listening to the excited chatter of the other ladies fading off ahead. I’d loosen my hat, wipe my brow and relive, for a while, what had just happened. How brave was my honest horse… and the fact that I’d survived a stroke and a lifetime of rheumatoid arthritis… to ride a saddle I’d built with my own hands… while racing at the Calgary Stampede.

Then, I’d be reminded of how uncomfortable my underslung heels were for walking as I crossed the old blue bridge. I’d catch up to the other riders, unsaddle and wash my horse, urging my husband to keep walking Brooks until it was time to feed and put him to bed.

 

After that, there were more interviews.

Champagne corks were popping in the barn during Ryan’s presentation to Sam of a huge bouquet. We stood arm-in-arm, tears rolling unchecked down our mud-spattered faces, looking over the quiet darkness of the river. Then, with eyes raised, we watched the show of fireworks that signaled the end.

 

 

Thank you for following my memoir of an incredible experience. I will always hold dear the memory of being among the eight lady riders who first raced sidesaddle at the Calgary Stampede. 

We are told that we’re not living fully until we do something that frightens us… and with that in mind, I’ve plans to live out the summer, just playing it safe!

I’ll be joining some of my sidesaddle sisters at parades and ranch rodeos around the foothills area of southern Alberta. Most of my days will be spent, alone with my horses, riding quietly with a leg on each side. Cheers for now, Lee.